Tyler Thompson, Special to The Denisonian

Who nowadays doesn’t have a “favorite” type of murder? Or perhaps you have a favorite crime trope? Serial killers, organized crime, husbands as suspects, or kidnappings? Or my own personal fascination: stories on elusive cults.

I understand the appeal of true crime. Indulging on the occasional limited series, movie or book which details criminality is not foreign to me in the slightest. Piecing together clues, hearing peoples’ interviews and the construction of a followable plot line – it sucks you in. 

It’s almost Shakespearean as the tragedy unfolds, allowing us to see the drama of others displayed in a three-act structure. 

Until recently, I had not thought much about the saturation of coverage around the ever-growing genre of true crime. Podcasts, documentaries, books, and even coloring books about murder have become the American past time for decompressing. 

However, I fell out of the intriguing haze of true crime stories after I heard one word: “unalived.”

To use in a sentence: On the early morning of Jan. 3, the mother of three was unalived in her living room. 

This is a handy TikTok hack to avoid censorship. “Unalived” can mean murder, suicide, or death. 

“Unalive” sounds so nonchalant, casual, and ultimately indifferent to anyone affected by the trauma. But is it?  

The term has also taken on a form of its own as a contemporary way to talk about death in general. Increasingly, “unalive” is used to describe the outcome of suicide. The argument is that this gentler terminology allows for more discussion of suicide. However, many experts say the use only stigmatizes suicide more due to peoples’ refusal to directly address suicide. 

By creating new language detached from the true meaning, people begin to become lose emotionally ties to others presented to them. The oversaturation of true crime has shown an influx of vocabulary which lessens the effects of the most atrocious crimes you’ve ever heard. 

Half of Americans say they enjoy true crime. Women are twice as likely to regularly listen to true crime podcasts than men. 

The genre itself has been crafted almost entirely by women for women while; simultaneously positioning women to be in constant fear of that crime could happen to them. 

Similarly, most true crime podcasts use each individual episodes as profiles to focus on one story fulling, compositing everything they can on the crime, victim, family, or clues.  

Similarly, some women have even started to make their own composites, called “In Case I Go Missing” folders, filled with photos of their tattoos, finger prints, hair samples, online passwords and frequently visited places. If you would rather not DIY a folder, you can buy your own on Etsy for $15.  

These women are anticipating their own disappearances and presumably murders by making a kit that would make detectives’ work easier when investigating. The saturation of true crime towards women creates the expectancy one will become a victim. Uniquely, the women become active in their own possible victimization. 

The push for individual involvement in true crime has led for additional personal stakes in the murders of others. People relate to the victims they see with similar upbringing, families, or careers to involve themselves in situations that don’t need others’ assessments. 

Take for example, the hit podcast “My Favorite Murder,” hosted by Georgia Hardstark and Karen Kilgariff, which debuted in 2016 to acclaimed success on podcasts charts and has since accumulated millions of listeners. In 2019 Forbes named the show second in highest earning podcasts with $15 million in revenue. The podcast itself talks about infamous killers and stories while giving women the opportunity to be aware of crime and resources they have at their disposal. 

But again, the podcast title is heavily disjointed from the actual murders. By claiming to have a “favorite” murder, you lose any form of empathy for those involved or harmed within the stories. 

You interject yourself into real life circumstances for the entertainment value, ultimately enjoying others’ pain because it didn’t happen to you. 

This is not my attempt to tell people or even myself to immediately quit consuming true crime content but to reevaluate the impact of these stories. 

Who is being positioned? Victims or killers? 

What language are they using to describe individuals and their actions? Is it empathetic, blunt, or apathetic? 

Finally, what do I as a viewer take away from such testimonies? 

True crime is not meant for people to live in fear, awaiting crime to happen, but to be educated in hopes to avoid from your story being told on TikTok for views. 

Tyler Thompson ‘27 is a journalism major from Bowling Green.